


The Relationship Investigations

by SherlocksSister



Series: Tuesdays and Thursdays [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge, Anal Sex, Arse Worship, Body Worship, Breeding, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Master/Pet, Nursing, Parent!lock, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Relationship Negotiation, Rough Sex, Sherlock's Feet, Spanking, Unexpected ejaculations, brand-new relationship, unusual sex toy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: Sherlock and John are in the early days of their brand-new relationship, trialing and testing what works for them.This follows on from my workExperiments on a Tuesdayusing the prompts for 31 Days of Porn Challenge 2017





	1. John Watson, it Appears You Like it Rough

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, Pretending.

Two weeks into their brand-new relationship and things between John and Sherlock had completely changed. Not in the big things, not in the ways you might expect, but in lots of little ways. John certainly was taken by surprise by his new lover on a daily basis. The first thing he noticed was the cup of tea; Sherlock often woke early and brought him a cup of tea in bed before gently waking him. Some mornings, he even managed to keep his hands to himself long enough to let John drink it. 

The second thing was the showering. That very first day they had had a serious discussion about conducting themselves with propriety around Rosie. Kissing, hugging and holding hands were all fine but anything else was to be kept for their time alone. It was good rule, an important boundary that all parents had to impose,  but John had been finding it harder to keep to than Sherlock. He had started sneaking in when Sherlock had a shower. It wasn’t that he wanted sex, well not always, as they often indulged early in the morning. No, this was more about John wanting to take care of Sherlock, wash him, tend to him. The surprise was that the self-contained and particular Sherlock Holmes lapped it up. He quietly hummed as John sponged down his back and sighed as John washed his hair. It had quickly developed into a daily ritual, an important intimacy.

The change that most delighted John was the gift buying. In their friendship, John and Sherlock had often given each other gifts; a new shirt or a book for Christmas, a trip to a violin concerto or the cinema for a birthday. Now, Sherlock was bringing John a small gift every single day. It had begun with the packet of chocolate hobnobs left beside the morning cuppa and included, variously, a Belgian bun from Speedy’s, a fresh handkerchief for wiping Rosie’s face, a book of sudoku puzzles, a framed photograph of Rosie and John for the mantelpiece and a new pair of socks. John had tried to protest, to explain this was unnecessary, that he didn’t need for anything but Sherlock had waved him away with a, “But I like buying you things, John.” John was utterly besotted with this new attentive, indulgent Sherlock.

Of course, other things had remained utterly the same. There was never any milk unless John bought it, no fresh food unless John cooked it and nothing cleaned unless John tidied it. Sherlock still dashed off when Molly called and still stayed out until all hours, often without a call or any more than a text; ‘12 severed index fingers’.

Today they were attending their first case together since moving their relationship forward. The first week together they had agreed to treat themselves to a week off. Then it seemed that the criminal class were paying their respects to the crime-fighting duo by laying off the murder, thievery and conning for a few days. The peace had eventually been broken by the specially designated ‘ding’ that heralded a text from Lestrade. John had been as glad as Sherlock for a chance to stretch their legs. 

With Rosie safely tucked away with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John met Lestrade and his team in a dingy bedsit in a run-down tower block in Tooting. The body of an elderly gentleman was slumped in a chair, head lolling forward, but the smell of petrol pervading everything was a give away, even to John, that he had not died of natural causes.

Sherlock was his usual brilliant, antagonistic self; insulting everyone present and solving the death in less than 5 minutes. Apparently, the petrol was a decoy meant to imply that the perpetrator intended to burn the evidence. In fact, the man had been slowly poisoned by his son-in-law who wanted to get his hands on the old man’s squirrelled life savings. The old man had himself flung the petrol in his dying minutes in an attempt to alert those that found him to the foul play afoot.

John was as dazzled as ever by Sherlock’s performance and couldn’t hold back his, “Brilliant, love!”

The glare Sherlock shot his way quickly doused his delight. Sherlock dragged him by the elbow to a corner, glancing at Lestrade.

“Don’t do that, John.” Sherlock glared down his nose.

“What? Say you’re brilliant? Bit late for you to be telling me that now.” 

“No. The ‘love’ bit. Our relationship status is none of these idiots’ business. Please refrain.”

John was gobsmacked. He was also rather hurt. Was Sherlock embarrassed of them, of him? For God’s sake, most of these people thought they had been shagging for years. John’s hurt and confusion flared into indignant, muttered, anger.

“Are you telling me,” he half-growled, “that I am not allowed to show these people what we mean to each other? That I have to pretend it’s all ‘business as usual?’, ‘cos, Sherlock, that’s ridiculous and not the smallest bit insulting.” 

“You’ve been pretending for years,  _ apparently _ . What difference does it make now?”

John wrenched his elbow out of Sherlock’s firm grip and stormed out the flat door, heading for the urine-soaked stairs  Anger flared again when he got to the bottom and couldn’t remember the way out of the maze of concrete corridors, pulling at doors randomly until he found the one that led to the foyer and marched out the exit.

Oh, it was fine for him to cook and clean for Sherlock, but be acknowledged in front of their colleagues? God forbid. Oh, no, these people couldn’t possibly be told that the great Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love and was loved in return. What on earth would become of his inter-fucking-national reputation then?

John heard Sherlock’s footsteps behind him just as he passed the narrow alley between the two vast concrete blocks of flats. He stopped and grabbed Sherlock by the coat lapels and shoved him up against the wall.

“John...” 

“You bastard! You’re all lovey-dovey at home but show the world? Oh no. What, are you ashamed of us? Embarrassed?” 

As his anger surged, John had a sudden flash of memory, the sight of a panicking Sherlock pushed up against a mortuary door, shaking. John, horrified, dropped Sherlock’s coat and tried to step back.

Sherlock grabbed John’s upper arms hard, swung a foot to the back of his ankle and unbalanced him just enough to be able to forcibly spin John around and shove him back against the concrete wall in return as he spat, 

“Don’t be stupid, of course I’m not, I..”

“Then why the sham, the pretense?” John yelled, pushing Sherlock explosively in the chest, unbalancing him. As Sherlock stepped back to regain his footing, John tried to storm past him, only for Sherlock to catch him by the wrist, pull his arm behind him and force John face first up against the wall. Both men were breathing hard and Sherlock pushed his entire body weight into John, whose arm was twisted up between them. Sherlock kicked John’s ankles apart and pulled his arm up just that bit higher as he leaned in next to John’s ear and growled.

“Because, when this all burns up and you can’t stand me anymore, at least I will be able to carry on with my work with some scrap of dignity in tact while my heart breaks.”

At the same time, Sherlock snaked his hand down John’s front and cupped the erection pushing hard at the wall.

“Oh, John Watson, it appears you like it rough.”

So it would seem, although John Watson was only just learning this fact about himself too. He had never been with anyone stronger than himself, with a temper to match his own. He had always been a careful, considerate partner but there was definitely something about Sherlock that had always brought out this more dangerous, angrier side of him. Maybe he should be more surprised this had not happened sooner.

“Sherlock,” he groaned “I’m not going to…” Sherlock ran his hand firmly up and down John’s erection and pressed his own hard into John’s arse at the same time. Sherlock released John’s arm from its incapacitated position up his back but continued to hold it tightly by the wrist, only now he guided it down over his own hard cock. Sherlock held John’s hand there firmly, rocking his hips up into it, fucking John’s hand, at the same time unbuttoning John’s jeans and reaching inside.

“Fuck! Sherlock.” John grunted as Sherlock ran his hand firmly up and down John’s rigid cock, enough to make him even harder but not enough to make him come. John had something he wanted to say, something important, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was. All he could think about now was the slide of those long fingers, the feel of Sherlock holding his hand still while he used it for his own pleasure and desperately trying not to draw attention to themselves, especially not the police roaming the place.

Sherlock roughly removed his hand from John’s trousers, all the time nipping and licking where John’s neck rose above his collar. The groans and grunts Sherlock was making in his ear as he bucked and pushed into John’s hand were becoming deeper, less controlled. Sherlock intertwined his own long fingers through John’s, keeping their hands locked in place. 

“I want to make you come right here against this wall. I’m going to pull down your trousers so everyone can see your naked, slutty arse.” Sherlock’s voice was dark and threatening and John’s cock pulsed and leaked in response.

“Please, pleeeaaase, Sherlock,” he begged, no longer caring who saw them. He tried to use his other arm to push them around so he could face Sherlock, kiss him, but Sherlock still had his full body weight leaning onto his chest, pinning John down. 

Sherlock suddenly stopped his increasingly urgent fucking of John’s hand, stepped back and holding John by the shoulders, spun him around. John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Sherlock pulled back, his eyes hard and gleaming.

“John, suck me,” he demanded. 

John sank to his knees, his own bare cock still exposed to the cool air. Sherlock leaned towards the wall, screening John from sight with his Belstaff. He didn’t bother unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, just dropped the zip and pulled Sherlock’s cock out. It was so hard, he could barely pull it down enough to reach his mouth and he was just able to wrap his lips around the crown. John sucked hard as his mouth flew up and down, hands gripping Sherlock’s arse to steady himself and pull Sherlock closer. 

It didn’t take long before Sherlock came, legs weakening so that John had to hold him up by the arse as he licked Sherlock clean. Still breathing hard, Sherlock pulled John up off the ground and reached down, pushing  John's jeans down as he had promised before taking his cock in hand and stroking. John groaned and leaned into Sherlock’s broad shoulder, his bare arse pressed against the rough wall. He hid his face as he came, covering Sherlock‘s hand in copious amounts of semen. They leaned together against the wall, John wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, heads pressed together as they caught their breath. Sherlock gathered them both back into their trousers before taking John’s face in his hands and kissing him softly. 

John’s brain swam back to the surface through the haze of lust and hormones. Something. Something important. Needed to say. He gasped, his eyes flew open. He held Sherlock’s face still and made him look at him directly.

“I’m not leaving you Sherlock. You can stop worrying about that. I promise, I’m here for good. We don’t need to pretend anymore.”

Sherlock just closed his eyes and kissed John again.


	2. I Liked the Suckling, the Softness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important things in their relationship are ignored when Sherlock proposes they explore their sexual boundaries; no embarrassment, no shame. John accepts and Sherlock reveals a surprising fondness.
> 
> For prompt 2 Lactation/nursing

Both men are quiet in the cab taking them home, each caught up in their own thoughts. Sherlock replays each detail in his mind to pinpoint the moment that this unease set in. On just his second analysis, he realises it had been the moment that John had grabbed him by the coat and forced him back against the wall. He had seen the flicker of something in John’s eye and, assaulted by memories and images, had reacted from anger rather than the lust he dressed his actions up in.

Sherlock still dreamt about that awful day in the morgue; the memory of John’s fist coming at him to the soundtrack of Culverton’s laugh. At the time, he had only been half aware of what was going on, his mind wrapped in the obfuscation of drugs, distracted by paranoia and the pain already seeping through every vein and artery. In his dreams, he fought back, sometimes pining John down like today. Other times, he looked up from the floor to see Mary standing over him, shaking her head in disappointment. “You killed me, Sherlock.”

There had been a stilting discussion of that day; John contrite, tears, apologies and promises made. Sherlock thought they had moved on. His joy at this, their new footing, the chance to take John into his bed had pushed the memories further away; they weren’t memories of  _ this _ John, his John. They were of some other man, a distant and irrelevant long-lost cousin.

It would seem, however,  that this was one thing that wouldn’t stay buried, however much Sherlock wanted it to. Today he had reacted instinctively and pushed John into new territory, something they had never discussed. It was something Sherlock had wanted but didn’t know how to ask for. Had he taken it too far? John had seemed to enjoy it, but, Sherlock had to admit, some of it had been a bit not good. Was this the thing that would push John away, seeing this side of him? It had happened before.

Staring out of the cab window, John replays the whole event over and over in his head. It was their first real disagreement since becoming - what? Lovers? Partners? Boyfriends? In the same way that they had not discussed telling other people about them, they had also not agreed a descriptor. It was still niggling at him, Sherlock not wanting people to know. To be fair, they hadn’t discussed it. In fact, they hadn’t done a lot of discussing anything really, too wrapped up in each others hands and lips and cocks as they had been. That was the thing, wasn’t it? They had just rushed  - no, not exactly rushed - more  _ charged  _ headlong into this and not thought through any of the consequences, the ramifications.

John sighs. What was all this nonsense about him leaving Sherlock? He had done everything he could think of to let Sherlock know he was here for good, that he loved the infuriating man from the auburn-laced curls of his head to the prehensile toes of his feet. Well, he would have to just keep on trying, after all, he had no one to blame but himself if Sherlock still doubted him. John’s mind once more conjures and then immediately slides past the memory of him slamming Sherlock against the wall. No, better not to dwell on that. Instead, he relives the surge of lust he had experienced as Sherlock pinned him to the wall with his full weight and used John’s hand to take his own pleasure. John has never experienced anything like that before and is surprised by how very much he had enjoyed it. What he does know, from the way his cock is stiffening again in the back of the cab, is that he would very much like to do something like it again.

Their arrival back at Baker Street breaks the silence. As John pays the cabbie, Sherlock waits for him, solicitously holding the cab door open. They trudge up the stairs and John is automatically drawn to the kettle. Sherlock watches from his chair and thanks him for the tea John hands to him.

As John settles into his own chair, Sherlock regards him. 

“I’m sorry, John.”

John’s head flies up, his expression a mixture of shock at the apology and confusion at its meaning.

“What for?”

“The alley. What I did. I..I mean, we did. Or I did to you. I-”

“It’s ok, Sherlock. I was taken by surprise and, certainly, it’s a side of you I haven’t seen before, but in a way it made sense.”

“But I-”

“Sherlock, seriously, it’s fine. I... Well, I liked it. Once the shock passed.” John dips his head, examining his hands. “I’ve never done anything like that before. It’s something I would like to... explore with you.”

Sherlock studies John’s face as best he can. He is telling the truth, Sherlock deduces, he found it exciting, arousing. The idea is a revelation to Sherlock, that he can have this. Yet again, John Watson has surprised him; where he expected rejection, condemnation, instead there is acceptance and desire. A bloom of warmth spreads through his chest and he shifts to the edge of his seat. Leaning over and taking John’s hands in his, stroking the back of one with his long fingers, he tips John’s head back up to face him.

“We need to run an investigation, John.”

“What? Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

“You know I do. With my life.”

“And I, you. I have never trusted anyone the way I do you. I believe it presents us with a unique opportunity, certainly I have never had this with anyone before.”

“What are you proposing?” 

“That we give each other the chance to find out what we like, sexually. That nothing is off the menu until one, or both, of us says ‘no’ or ‘stop’. A series of trials, conducted together.”

John shifts forward and closes the gap between them, gazing into Sherlock’s eyes. He runs his hand lightly along Sherlock’s delicate jaw, up over a cheekbone. “Anything?”

“Anything. No embarrassment, no shame. Just you and me finding out what works for us. What do you think?”

John wonders what he has ever done to deserve this extraordinary man; he knows immediately that this will both fulfill him in ways he has never imagined and stretch him beyond limits he doesn’t even know he has yet. It is equal parts terrifying and intoxicating. Without even a heartbeat's hesitation, he stands and pulls Sherlock to his feet.

“I think that Rosie will be alright for another hour with Mrs. Hudson and that you should take me to bed.”

The slow smile that fills Sherlock’s face is both predatory and utterly smitten. He takes John by the hand and leads him to the bedroom. They fall on each other with devouring kisses, hands roaming under clothes. John grabs a handful of Sherlock’s bountiful arse and drags his hard cock over Sherlock’s.

“We have to be completely honest with each other, Sherlock, or this won’t work. No games, no manipulation and no deducing; we tell each other what we want.” 

Sherlock answers with a groan, capturing John’s face in his two large hands, delicately kissing his eyes, his nose before a searing kiss leaves them both panting.

“I give you my word. Total honesty.” 

John gives a small laugh. Total honesty from Sherlock may be a bitter pill at times but at least John can rely on him for that.

Clothes thrown to the floor, Sherlock scrambles to the bed, lying out flat; legs spread, arms outstretched inviting John to lie between them. 

John admires the view before slowly crawling between Sherlock’s legs and burying his face in that exquisite neck. Ideas flood his head of seeing that neck in a collar, of having Sherlock tied to the bed and spending hours just licking and biting him everywhere. John licks his way down Sherlock’s throat and chest.

“Do you ever miss them, John?”

“What?”

“Breasts. Before, you always favoured female sexual partners. I often wonder if you miss breasts.”

“I love your chest. I love it’s strength, it’s broadness.”

“I do. I miss them sometimes.”

John looks up sharply at Sherlock. 

“Don’t be so surprised, I have been with women. How do you think I kept Janine in my room all night? We never had intercourse, but I did spend a pleasant few hours sucking on her breasts and playing with her nipples to see if I could make her orgasm from that alone.”

John pushes down the surge of jealousy.”And could you?”

“Yes. Although it took quite some time.”

“You enjoyed it?”

“Yes. I liked the suckling, the softness. I enjoyed the feeling of her breasts on my cheek.”

“Would you like to try that with me? I mean, I know I don’t have breasts, but I do have nipples and-”

“Yes. I would like to.”

“Alright.”

They swap positions and John lies, propped a little way up the headboard. He has always enjoyed having his nipples played with but has never experienced prolonged stimulation.

Sherlock curls up next to him, wrapping his long body over John’s outstretched legs, snaking an arm behind him, the other hand resting on John’s belly. He lowers his head to the nipple closest to him, begins with a tentative lick then presses the flat of his tongue to the muscle beneath and begins to suck gently, rhythmically.

John groans and arches up into Sherlock’s mouth, his cock hard and aching. He lays his hand on Sherlock’s head, stroking and smoothing, gently pushing Sherlock’s head more firmly onto his chest.

The rhythmic sucking continues and John feels Sherlock shift so he can press his own erection firmly against John’s thigh. He expects to become over-sensitive, sore from the repeated motion but Sherlock keeps the suction just light enough. John throws back his head onto the pillow behind him, sensation pulsing from his nipple to his hard cock. He relaxes into the sensations, Sherlock clearly not being in any hurry. 

Sherlock is rocking his own hips back and forwards now, in time with his suckling. John is so aroused he cannot help rocking his hips up into thin air. He is becoming desperate when Sherlock lifts off and moves his sucking to the left nipple. The fresh sensation shoots through him and he becomes aware that Sherlock is holding onto the wrist of his free hand, preventing John from touching himself.

“Please, Sherlock. God, please touch me.” His hips are thrusting up hard now. Sherlock’s arm behind him holds him tight, keeping Sherlock’s mouth firmly in place, all the time still rutting against John’s leg.

The smell of Sherlock’s arousal and feel of his pre-come cool on his thigh only serves to intensify the sensations and now John is thrusting up faster and faster. Sherlock’s rutting has become urgent and his breathing hard against John’s chest although he never once stops sucking. Then, Sherlock is coming. Groaning against John’s chest, it is the sound of him and the feel of his warm ejaculate running down John’s thigh that tips him over the edge and John is coming and coming, thrusting up into nothingness, gasping as his semen coats his belly. 

They lay side by side, panting for a few moments until Sherlock languidly lays his head on John’s shoulder.

“Hmmmmm that was good,” he croons in John’s ear.

“It’s been years since I came untouched. That was extraordinary.”

“I do believe we can mark our first trial a success. It will be your turn to chose what we experiment with next”

In answer, John just pats the side of Sherlock’s face; he is going to have to give this some serious thought.


	3. Silky-smooth Enveloping Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock run a trial inspired by one of John's fantasies from the time before they were a couple.
> 
> For the prompt, Unusual Sex Toy

From the perfect vantage point of his chair, John watches them, mesmerised. Their length, their slenderness and mobility make them the perfect anatomical specimen. Seriously, he would have been like an overexcited puppy had he made their acquaintance during his medical training. He can name every single one of their component parts, all of them visible from where he sits; bones, tendons and muscles alike.

He had always been fond of them, all those years before they became - whatever they are now  - and they had even featured in one or two masturbatory fantasies. John sails happily off down that train of thought for a few moments until he realises Sherlock is staring back at him. An idea  occurs to him.

“Is there something wrong with my feet?”

John meets Sherlock’s raised eyebrow with a sly grin, a quirk at the left corner of his mouth. He glances around to check Rosie’s whereabouts and, content she is sufficiently absorbed in her toys, speaks quietly across the space between them.

“I have had an idea. There’s something I’d like us to trial.”

“Oh?”

“Obviously, I can’t go into too much detail right now, but it’s something I used to think about, you know, before.”

Sherlock examines John’s face carefully. This is new. Both have acknowledged a deep affection and sexual desire for the other over a long period of time, but have not yet discussed how that had affected their behaviour; their coping mechanisms, if you will. That idea, combined with the positively lecherous look on John’s face causes Sherlock’s cock twitches and starts to fill. He glances at the clock; still an hour before Rosie’s bathtime and bedtime to navigate. No sense in getting too aroused just yet. Although, enjoying the anticipation has become one of the many delights Sherlock finds in their new arrangement.

“Will you tell me? Later?”

“I’ll do better than that.” John leans forward in his chair. “I’ll show you.” He stands, heading for the kitchen. Before he leaves the room, though, he lays his hand on Sherlock’s chin, tips up his face and carefully placed a sweet kiss on his lips. His arse, as John makes for the kettle, may have swayed just a tiny bit more than usual. Sherlock surreptitiously has to make extra room in his trousers.  

The next hour is a blur of fleeting kisses, swift strokes across palms and over-long leans into shoulders. At bath time, they kneel side by side, hips and thighs pressed together as Rosie throws her plastic ducks in the water and Sherlock entertains her with the Kermit hand puppet that doubles as a wash cloth.

Stories and kisses done, John drops Rosie up to her room and Sherlock takes a quick shower as John sings to her until she settles. 

Emerging from the bathroom, John is waiting for Sherlock on their bed. 

“Let’s have a look at all that long-limbed gorgeousness then.” 

Sherlock carefully drops the towel wrapped around his waist to the floor and stands for a second to be admired. He prowls over to the bed, kneeling at the end facing John, his quadriceps flexing underneath him as he sits back.

“Tell me about this...idea.”

“Well you might find it a bit-” Sherlock cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Do not impose your own judgments on me, John. As I recall, we made an agreement; no embarrassment, no shame.”

“Yeah. Ok. It’s not too… I mean, it’s just something I came up with a few years ago.”

Sherlock crawls into John’s lap, licking and sucking at his ear, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his way across John’s collar bone. John relaxes underneath him. He is a bit embarrassed about this, it’s a bit silly but kept him company on many a desperate wank, alone upstairs, still full of adrenaline from a chase or a fight. 

“Tell me.” Sherlock breathes.

“Well, it started all because of your refusal to do any laundry.”

Frowning, Sherlock carries on his exploration of John, removing his shirt and starting on loosening his belt.

“Yeah. I was doing your washing and I, er, I over-washed one of your cashmere socks. Boiled it actually. It was destroyed, all felted up into this ugly lump. I didn’t want to let on so I, um, waited ‘til its pair came through the wash too and nicked it.”

Sherlock pauses in his attempts to shimmy John’s trousers down his legs. “The purple ones? I wondered what had happened to them?” 

“Yeah. Well. I couldn’t get over how soft that sock was. Silky.” John lifts his hips helpfully and pushes down his own underwear at the same time. Sherlock is watching his face carefully and John is trying his best to be nonchalant.

“Oh. Oh!” Sherlock had obviously made his deductions.

“I know, Sherlock, I had it for at least six months, hidden in a draw, before I used it.”

“You masturbated with my sock?” Sherlock does an excellent job of keeping his voice level.

John takes his courage in his hands and nods. “And now, I would like to make all the things I fantasised about come true. I want you to use one of your socks to make me come.”

If Sherlock is surprised, he doesn’t let a hint of it show on his face. 

“Pure cashmere or silk blend? Any colour preference?” 

“S-silk blend? If you’re sure you don’t mind and the...the colour doesn’t really matter.”

Sherlock unfolds himself from the bed and strides to the chest of drawers housing his sock-index. He peruses for a moment, running a careful finger up and down the neat rows before selecting a dark petrol blue sock.

“Close your eyes.”

John obeys, nervous but excited for what Sherlock has in mind. The first touch is fleeting, just the barest of glides over his shoulder. Next, Sherlock drags the silky-warm fabric down John’s torso, stopping at the navel. Then, he moves to John’s arms, lightly floating the sock up and down each one. John lets out a sigh of contentment at just being the centre of Sherlock’s attention and melts into the duvet.

Sherlock takes his time brushing the softness all over John’s skin; his cheeks, the back of his knees, his elbows. He puts his hand inside the sock and gives firm strokes up the inside of John’s thighs, stopping tantalisingly short of his balls. Every now and then, Sherlock will follow his strokes with a small kiss or nip, The contrast in sensations make John groan.

Every inch of John’s front caressed, Sherlock orders him onto his front and repeats his loving ministrations over John’s back, his thighs and eventually, his arse. 

By now, John is very aroused and when Sherlock leans over to reach his shoulders or back, he can feel the hot weight of Sherlock’s own cock on his skin. He can’t help but rock his hips, pushing his cock into the bed. 

“No.” breathes Sherlock, He runs his be-socked hand down the full length of John’s spine, slipping his hand underneath, fondling John’s balls and slipping his finger through the full depth of John’s buttocks. The man beneath his hands gives a soul-deep groan.

“Turn over.”

It takes a gargantuan effort for John to move from the comfort of his position but is rewarded with a deep, lingering kiss from Sherlock. At the same time, Sherlock slides his covered hand slowly down John’s belly, caressed his balls before firmly gripping John’s cock.

John arches up off the bed, the smooth warmth enveloping him.

“Oh, God, Sherlock that’s so, so-”

Sherlock’s hand speeds up, at the same time leaning in and kissing John deeply. John’s orgasm explodes from deep within him, ruining the silk and cashmere Sherlock is still easing over him as he recovers. Panting, he watches as Sherlock takes the besmirched sock and runs it rapidly over his own hard cock, wiping John’s semen onto himself. Head thrown back into the pillows, pumping into his own hand, Sherlock comes with a shout, catching his own ejaculate in the fabric. John wraps himself around Sherlock, pulling him close, nuzzling into the softness of of his neck. 

“How did that compare to your imaginings?” Sherlock asks once he can breath properly.

“God, so, so much better. I think you might be a genius. Did anyone ever suggest that to you before?”

“It has been mentioned.”

“Do you think that was a bit...odd?”

“Not at all. It is perfectly logical. Sensation play is a very common desire and you chose something intrinsically associated with the object of your affections. Something that you know is important to me. In a way, you were simply finding your own way for us to be closer. I hope my involvement has completed the feedback loop?”

  
John giggles; only Sherlock Holmes could reduce his kink to pure logic. No wonder he is completely in love with this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nature of a daily prompt challenge means that these works are un-betaed, written and posted quickly. If you spot spelling/typos/tense errors, please feel free to let me know. Thanks.


	4. Puuuurfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronting a difficult case leaves Sherlock vulnerable until John finds a way to comfort and distract his beautiful boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, Pet Play

They awake to the buzzing of Sherlock’s phone at 5.20, a call from Lestrade. Sherlock listens carefully, only interrupting once with,

“How far?”

John drifts in and out of sleep, waiting to discover if Sherlock is getting up or not; there is no question of John going at this hour of the day and leaving Rosie with someone.

Sherlock eventually extricates himself from their bed but, instead of leaping out, sits on the edge, elbows on knees, brushing his hair back and forth. John is unsure if his obvious disquiet is the result of having to leave their bed or whatever Lestrade said to him on the phone.

Sherlock hauls himself to his feet, silently visiting the loo and having a cursory wash before getting dressed in the dark. When he leans over, John is expecting a kiss but instead Sherlock burrows into his neck, inhaling deeply, stroking John's skin with his nose.

“Sherlock?”

“I'll call you later. After breakfast.”

Sherlock quietly closes the door behind himself and John listens to his movements around the kitchen, waiting for the front door to close as he tries to settle back to sleep. Instead of the front door banging, he hears Sherlock climb the stairs to Rosie's room. Over the baby monitor, he listens as Sherlock leans over and kisses the sleeping baby's head, murmuring. With a flash of understanding, John knows the content of Lestrade‘s call, understands Sherlock’s reticence, his silence. A dead child.

This is the first time since Sherrinford they have had to confront such a case - and first since Sherlock effectively became a parent.

John debates getting up, talking to Sherlock, asking him if he is sure this is a good idea. Before he decides, though, he hears Sherlock clatter down the two flights of stairs and the slam of the front door.

It is closer to eleven when Sherlock finally does call, giving John the barest outline of the case; the body of a five year old girl dumped at the back of a hospital, no marks or signs of abuse, well fed and fully dressed. He asks John to do some online research and makes some calls. His tone is subdued, keeping to the facts and ending with.

“Kiss Rosie for me.”

John does just that, not wanting to let her off his lap for most of the the day,stroking her hair and kissing her cheek so often she starts to push him away in annoyance.

Sherlock trudges up the stairs around midnight. He is exhausted and just shakes his head at John when he asks how things are going, cutting him off with ‘later.’ He goes to lie down on the sofa but John sits down first, preventing Sherlock from taking up his thinking pose.

“You need to eat. I made you soup.”

“Leek and potato?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s face shifts into an expression somewhere between gratitude and stubbornness. John knows he is about to hear some nonsense about the potatoes slowing down his thinking, but is up and ladelling it into a bowl before Sherlock can formulate his argument.

“Was it awful? Did you make any progress?”

“Yes and yes. John, would you mind if we didn't talk about it just now? Just until the morning? I'm still,” he waves his hand around near his head, “processing it all.”

John's futile attempts to get Sherlock to come to bed and sleep mean that when he wakes the following morning, Sherlock is already gone and John has no idea where. His text remains unanswered and a brief call from Sherlock two hours later does little to put his mind at rest. He is in the process of organising Rosie a place at the drop in creche so he can go and help when he hears Sherlock slamming the front door.

He fills the kettle as Sherlock hangs up his coat, exhaustion and horror trailing behind him as he sits in his chair, staring unseeing at John's chair opposite.

The fleeting thought that they are getting too old for this flashes across John's mind as he silently hands Sherlock tea.

“She is in custody, the mother. Although she has no idea what is going on. It was all the most awful accident, John.” Sherlock turns his face up to John, grief written all over his face. “She - Alice - fell and was concussed. Her mother found her dead in her bed. Tried to take her to the hospital but her mind had broken. She carried her little girl, in the dark, for three hours before-” His voice cracks and John is on his knees beside Sherlock, arms around his waist, heads pressed together. Sherlock’s tear lands on John's cheek.

By that evening, a pall has drifted over all of 221b, making even Rosie fractious so that John lies down with her for half an hour before she settles to sleep. When he trundles back downstairs, he finds Sherlock prone on the sofa, apparently deep in his mind palace. Concerned that Sherlock is locked in a cycle of self-recrimination and microanalysis, he sits at the end of the sofa and lifts Sherlock’s feet into his lap. He begins with simply stroking, a firm hand on an ankle, fingers gliding over knobbly toes, ankle bones and arches. Receiving no reaction, he proceeds to stroke, knee to ankle, over Sherlock’s pajama-ed shins.

Sherlock stirs slightly, so John continues, long, slow strokes intended to soothe, not arouse. Stretching up, he includes outer thighs, lean and tense under his fingers. Sometimes, he uses his palms, sometimes the back of his hands for a more delicate touch. After about ten minutes, he is pleased that Sherlock’s breathing has deepened and slowed.

The first time Sherlock purrs, it's so quiet, John feels the rumble rather than hearing it, the vibration tingling up through his fingers where they rest on a taut abdomen.

“Budge over.” John taps Sherlock’s thigh until there is space for him to lie on his side next to Sherlock, face to face. John’s languid strokes move to arms, shoulders and hands now. The regular, deep, contented sound comes from the back of Sherlock’s throat, each stroke down his arm, hand, thigh producing a rumble that John can feel in his own chest where they are pressed tightly together.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker open only when John's fingers stroke his jawline, the skin beneath his ear, the bridge of his nose. The green gleam focuses only momentarily, fixing John with a stare, before Sherlock dips his face and, with the tiniest of tongue-touches, licks the length of John's cheekbone.

“Aren't you a beautiful boy? So sleek and smooth.” John croons as he drags his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pets him behind the ears and drops a tiny kiss to the tip of his nose.

Sherlock nuzzles deep into John's neck, lapping the very tip of his tongue into his ear, over his jaw, under his chin. Sinuously, Sherlock drapes himself over John's chest, still purring as John rhythmically runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Wait here.”

John is bereft when Sherlock suddenly slides over and off him, the graze of hard cocks against each other fleeting. He listens to Sherlock opening and closing drawers in their bedroom, content to lie in the soporific haze they have created.

“Johhhhnn.”

The breathed growl brings him back to his senses. Opening his eyes, he draws a sharp intake of breath at the sight before him; Sherlock Holmes slowly prowling towards him on all fours, back arched so his arse is lifted high into the air, swaying side to side with each forward movement. He is naked except for a single black, velvet band high around his throat, a tiny diamond drop dangling from its center just over his Adam's apple, catching the light with each sway of Sherlock’s dipped head.

One arm outstretched, Sherlock raises his head and fixes John with a half-lidded stare, imperious and full of disdain. Every muscle is taught, the line of his out-stretched throat echoed in the lines of his thigh and abdomen. John finally breathes out.

“Oh. You really are the most exquisite kitty. Come here, so I can pet you.”

Sherlock tips his head to one side as he approaches the sofa and rubs his cheek firmly along John's arm, then over his belly. He drifts his mouth over John's painfully hard cock and  _ purrs _ .

The vibrations make John groan, just as he is reaching down to stroke Sherlock’s back. Here he was, trying to soothe, to comfort and distract and this extraordinary man has taken his simple idea and turned it into the sexiest damn thing John has ever seen. He really is a genius.

As Sherlock rubs his cheek up and down John's cock, purring and lapping gently at the tip through John's trousers, he begins to sway his generous arse back and forwards. John hears it, the swish, just before his hand drifts down and feels the soft, swaying tail.

Oh, Sweet Jesus. Sherlock has a tail.

As Sherlock nuzzles and licks at John's crotch, John is busy exploring with his hands. He strokes down that luscious backside to find the long, shiny, black tail is attached to a stainless-steel butt plug, firmly ensconced in his pretty, little kitty's arse. John runs his hand over it once, giving just a gentle push with his palm on the way down between Sherlock’s legs, where he squeezes his balls before reaching out and grasping his heavy, hanging cock.

Sherlock groans, knees dipping, back arching up.

“Good boy. Such a good, precious pet. I think you deserve a little treat. Would you like a tasty treat, my beauty?”

Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John's, drawling out a baritone, “Meee-owww.” John responds with a stroke of his hand up and down over Sherlock’s cock.

“You'll have to unwrap it yourself, my pet, or I will have to let go.” Another languid stroke reinforces his point.

Sherlock fumbles with John's button and zip, pulling trousers and underwear down in one go. Cock freed, John throws back his head and groans as he is enveloped by the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, a purr vibrating all around him. He turns slightly, making it easier for Sherlock to reach him from his position on the floor, but it also means John can now reach Sherlock with both hands. Left hand working his cock, John's right hand now teases the tail plug slowly in and out of Sherlock just a fraction, drawing the flared end back further to stretch Sherlock. He cannot help but stare at the sight of that black tail swishing backwards and forwards as he works Sherlock’s hole open.

Sherlock is groaning around him now, arching up to push back onto the plug. John pushes his mouth away

“Now, now, puss. Not so greedy. I think you should come up here, up onto my lap. I want to see your lovely collar. Do you want to sit in my lap? “

As Sherlock moves his mouth away, John reaches down and, in one swift movement, eases the plug from Sherlock’s arse. Lube leaks gently from the now gaping hole and John scoops some up onto his fingers, using it to coat his own cock. Pushing his trousers down to his ankles, he sits up, resting against the sofa back as Sherlock crawls up beside him, slides one leg over John's thighs and comes to rest in his lap, hands holding on to the back of the sofa.

The tiny diamond droplet dangles just in front of John's nose. He reaches up and taps it gently, making it dance in the light. He runs his finger lightly over the velvet collar where it meets pale, smooth skin. Sherlock is watching him intently as he runs his finger slowly down Sherlock’s chest, down over his tensed stomach muscles and, with a feathery touch, circles the head of his straining cock. Sherlock shivers in his lap.

“Are you ready, you perfect creature? Are you ready for your reward for your very good behaviour? You know, the Egyptians believed cats are divine. You certainly are. Shall I give you your reward?”

The last question was underlined by John lifting his hips and grinding into Sherlock invitingly. Sherlock answered by raising himself up onto his knees before slowly, carefully _ , _ lowering himself down onto John's hard cock. John held Sherlock’s hips tightly, pulling him down hard and rising up to meet him. Sherlock throws his head back, showing off his beautiful collar and long, elegant neck to perfection and John has to reach up and hold onto his shoulder blades to keep him from falling back. He watches intently as strong muscles flex and relax as Sherlock rides him.

John just about manages to reach down and wrap his hand around the head of Sherlock’s cock, slick with precome, as his orgasm builds in his thighs and arse, coalesces and he fills Sherlock with come, panting, “Oh, my beautiful boy.”

Sherlock comes seconds after him, coating John's hand and navel in come, mixing with the sweat dripping from his stomach. He rolls off John, legs cramping and exhausted.

Hands entwined, they catch their breath side by side. John leans down, picking up the tail plug from the floor.

“Wouldn't want Rosie to go playing with this. Where on earth did you find it? Don't tell me you had it just in case? Even you're not that good.”

Sherlock chuckles and tries to speak. It's been so long since he has used his voice, he has to clear his throat.

“I have owned it for quite some time. It was a gift.”

John waits for him to expand, but nothing is forthcoming.”

“A gift? From whom?”

“Oh, just an ex.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “No-one you would know and certainly not someone I wish to discuss.”

John wanted to know more, but in his orgasm - wrecked state didn't feel up to it right now. They had, at best, had a cursory discussion of their sexual histories and John had taken Sherlock’s off hand ‘Just some experimenting in my younger days, you know. Nothing serious,’ at face value. This toy would suggest a bit more than a one night stand and, more to the point, why had Sherlock kept it? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Transmutation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John uncovers a need that Sherlock isn't sure he should have. It becomes more important to them than either one could have expected.
> 
> For the prompt, spanking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost my writing mojo for a while but I am now back with a vengence. I have also updated the Mycroft story that runs parallel to this. I make a brief reference to it here, so if you would like to know more about what is going on with Mycroft and Greg, you can read about it in [I Get Off Early on Thursdays](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10923711/chapters/24296157%20)

Something seems to have gone wrong when I posted this, so I am trying again.

The deduction is of particular brilliance. The combination of a single, black cat hair, matched with traces of evaporated acetone and glitter in the victim’s shirt collar, leads Sherlock to identify the victim’s manicurist sister as his murderer. Leaving the scene, John rewards Sherlock with a congratulatory pat to the bottom. His hand curls to encompass the magnificence of Sherlock’s right cheek, but his aim is a bit off. It ends up being closer to a gentle slap than the intended caress.

He barely catches the half-growl of satisfaction from Sherlock as they sit in the cab. John cannot help but tilt his head in acknowledgement of an interesting piece of information that needs storing for later exploration.

John tests his idea later the same week in their kitchen when Sherlock reverses out of the fridge and collides into him. Much to Rosie’s amusement, John declares him a ‘naughty Sherlock’, and with a mock cross face, gives the offending rump a little slap.

John pays close attention to the momentary closing of Sherlock’s eyelids and the shiver across his shoulders as Sherlock faces away to the sink.

Later that evening peace descends as Rosie sleeps. John sits reading in his chair while Sherlock scrolls through his emails.

“Sherlock, can I ask you something? Well, more like discuss something with you?”

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock doesn’t raise his eyes from his phone’s screen.

“Yeah. I know I’m not as good at it as you, but I may have observed something - made a deduction, even.”

He has Sherlock’s complete attention now. “Please, continue.”

“Yes. I have concluded you like to be spanked, that it turns you on.” John grins and wiggles his eyebrows.

Sherlock’s response is not quite the scenario he had refined in his imagination over the previous 15 minutes, while pretending to read. That involved Sherlock gasping in delight at the revelation of his secret, instantly turning in his chair and proffering his rounded arse to John. Instead, Sherlock sighs.

“Oh, you spotted that then. Very good.”

“Yeah. Look, it’s fine. Better than fine, it’s great. That’s something I can … get behind.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you could. However, I am not sure this particular  _ inclination _ of mine is one I wish to pursue.”

“If you enjoy it and I’m keen to join in, I don’t see what the problem is. I mean, we did agree to take our investigations as far as we comfortably felt we could, experiment with each other’s kinks. As kinks go, this is a pretty mild one. You do know it’s very common, don’t you? A bit of mild pain play?”

“You have hit the nail on the head with the word ‘comfortable’ John. I am not comfortable with this particular kink, as you wish to call it. I would prefer if we could drop the entire subject.”

“Did something happen in the past? Did someone take it too far?” A thought throbs in John’s brain like a sore tooth. He can’t help but worry at it. “Was it your ex, you know, the one with the cat collar?”

“Yes, something happened in the past. I can see the idea excites you. Is it the idea of me with another,” Sherlock drops his chin and looks up at John through his eyelashes, eyes wide, “lover? Or is it the idea of spanking me?” 

A surge of jealousy pounds through John at the word ‘lover’. It is most certainly not that turning him on. It’s the image of Sherlock; bent over, bare arsed and red-cheeked, whimpering and begging for more. John’s cock hardens even more. Yep, definitely that one. Something stirs at the back of his mind at this realisation. A question. He is reaching for it as Sherlock slides to his knees between them.

“Let me help you with that.” Those large eyes never leave John’s as his belt, button and fly are undone and his cock freed. All concerns about exes, and any self-analysis, leaves John’s brain the instant Sherlock’s lips wrap delicately around the head of his cock.

_____________

In the meditative space that boring tasks create in your brain, John reflects on the matter again as he washes up the following day. Sherlock is at Barts and Rosie is having her morning nap, affording John the luxury of an uninterrupted train of thought. Of course, he is aware of Sherlock’s strategic deployment of outstanding distraction techniques the previous evening. You don’t live with Sherlock Holmes for years without learning when you are being manipulated. Well, some of the time. 

Was it the ex, or the spanking, that Sherlock wanted to derail him from discussing? He had acknowledged that it was something in the past, so he must have had a bad experience with someone else, someone who went too far, or hurt him too much? Vision’s of Sherlock tied and at the mercy of this faceless bastard, crying out in pain, begging for them to stop, float across his imagination. 

John sighs. They are getting better at this, the talking things over, but this is obviously something Sherlock does not want to discuss. Should he let it lie? There are loads of other things they can do in bed, John has plenty of ideas. Only, that’s not what you do in a mature, committed relationship, is it? You don’t keep secrets and sweep things under the rug, however good you are at it. No, he resolves, he is going to give this conversation another try. He will reassure Sherlock that he won’t ever go beyond agreed limits and that Sherlock will be in control.

Washing up finished, John rubs his cock against the edge of the counter. Shit, but he is hard now. He heads off to the bedroom and has a quick wank, head filled with the sensation of his hand stinging as he pulls it back to give Sherlock yet another slap on his glorious backside.

_____________________

It’s been a peaceful Sunday. They now refuse all work on Sundays, turn off both their phones enjoying a family day. Persistent rain has kept them out of the playground; instead, they have had a day of creativity.  They spend a happy hour sat at the table colouring-in. John falls even more in love as he watches Sherlock’s tongue poke out in concentration at the bee picture he is working on with Rosie’s crayons. After a tasty roast dinner and naps all round, Sherlock whips up a mound of home-made modelling clay. He is conducting a comparative analysis of several recipes and this is the current favourite. They spend hours making model biscuits, cakes, sausages and beans. Sherlock conjures up a three layer confection of a wedding cake. 

An exhausted Rosie fast asleep, they curl up on the sofa.  They listen to each other’s heart beats, sometimes stroking a back or bicep. With Sherlock wrapped in his arms, warm and secure, John broaches the subject again.

“Love, you know how we are working on better communication with each other?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Well, I understand it is an uncomfortable topic for you, but we need to discuss this interest you have in spanking again.”

“John.” 

“No, listen. I get it. Obviously, someone has taken it too far, but there are things we can do. Set boundaries, use safe words, that kind of thing. There doesn’t need to be tying up or paddles or whips, unless you wanted it, of course. I’m just saying - I’d look after you.” John pulls Sherlock close and rocks his now hard cock against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock takes a deep breath and rubs his forehead against John’s shoulder.

“It seems you are becoming more aroused by the idea than I am. Have you given  _ that  _ any consideration?”

“Yeah, well I like making you feel good.” His fantasy of Sherlock, bent over, arse reddened and begging resurfaces in his mind and he rocks his hips again.

“I know you do, but are you certain that is all there is to it? That this is all about me?” Sherlock buries his head into the soft, aromatic nook where John’s bicep and chest are squashed together.

“Well, yeah the idea is attractive. I like the image of you bent over, your arse on display. It is a magnificent arse, you know?”

“And what are you doing in this image?”

“I’m hitting you.”

The second the words fly out of his mouth, the reality swamps him. He sits up, leaving Sherlock sprawled face down on the sofa.

“Oh God, Oh God, no. That’s ….. No, it’s not that, it’s different, it’s…” 

But it’s not, it’s not different. He  _ had  _ been aroused by the idea of having Sherlock under his control, helpless and begging. He had wanted to hit him, over and over again, until Sherlock’s arse was red raw and his own hand was sore. That was what had been hovering at the edge of his sub-conscious.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock.” That was why Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it. 

“I’m sorry.” John chokes out as he flees to their bedroom. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock gives him ten minutes before following John into their room. He finds John pressed against the headboard, eyes red and knees pulled up to his chest. Sherlock wonders who he is defending himself from; Sherlock or himself.

“I should have thought, love. It never even occurred to me. I am so, so-”

Sherlock cuts him off with an imperious hand wave. “It’s not just you that needs to consider their motivations.”

John frowns, shaking his head in confusion. Sherlock sighs and sits on the end of the bed.

“That day in the kitchen, when you slapped my arse, I liked it. More than liked - loved it. It made me feel…” He had struggled to identify the emotion. He had spent considerable time in his Mind Palace, rifling through his filing cabinet of feelings, trying them on and discarding them until he found the correct one. “Wanted. More than wanted. Possessed. As in,  _ your  _ possession, not the satanic type. Then I had to consider why that was a pleasurable and arousing feeling.”

“I don’t think I get it.”

“Indeed. Nor did I. In essence, what I am endeavouring to say is that I want you to hit me - specifically spank me - because it makes me feel that you own me and that makes me feel desired and, contradictorily, safe. And what in God’s name does that say about me - and our relationship?”

The men stare at each other in silence for a long moment. 

“I have no idea,” John ventures a rueful smile, “but it does sound exactly like us. That first night we were together, you laid down that boundary; no pain. You were right and I agreed. Now I feel I have crossed that boundary. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed it.” John runs both hands through his hair.

“Yet, your motivations, as usual, were well-intentioned. Was it not done with the hope of openness and building a healthy relationship? I cannot fault you for that.”

“Let’s forget-”

“The thing is I find-”

“After you, Sherlock.”

“The thing is, I find, I am still attracted to the idea. Of being spanked, I mean. It does arouse me. I believe it would also be a good thing for our relationship - a way for us to move forward from what happened… that day. Reframe such actions in a healthy way.”

“Go on.” John is skeptical, but open to persuasion.

“If we were to do as you suggested, lay down exact boundaries and agree limits? A safe word is unnecessary-”

“We need a safeword.” John interrupts, determined. “If we do this - and I’m not entirely sure I can now I understand what part of me finds this so arousing - but if we do, we absolutely need a safe word.”

“Ok, agreed. For both of us.” Sherlock scoots forward on the bed, closer to John.

“So, are we going to try this?”

“If … You’re sure?” 

Sherlock sits next to John, leaning on the headboard, and takes John’s hand. “I think we should try it, even if it is only the once. A reward for our talking about it. Well, you talking about it. I was quite content to carry on ignoring the matter.”

John squeezes his hand. “Don’t do yourself a disservice, we’re both getting better at it. Takes a while to undo the habits of a lifetime. Right, so shall we agree on our … parameters?”

Sherlock considers for a moment and shifts on the bed so they are facing each other. “Spanking only and with your hand. No paddles or whips or anything else, at least to start with. Just your hand. And...”

“Go on, love, you’re doing really well.” John gives him an encouraging grin.

Sherlock takes a deep breath his head tilting down. “After each slap, I want you to stroke it better.”

“Stroke your arse, you mean? Or your cock?” 

“My arse. Obviously, the other as well, as you see fit, but I meant that I want the sting to be soothed away. Oh, I should specify, you need to slap me hard enough to make it sting but not to mark me. No welts.” . 

John tilts Sherlock’s chin back up so they are eye to eye again. “Absolutely. No marking. What about the location? Any preferences?”

“Hmmm. Not in public or anywhere at risk of being seen. Here, at home but you can… surprise me.” Sherlock smirks.

“Ok, but that was not what I meant.” John smiles, his voice lower. This conversation is making him hard. “I meant what part of you can I spank? Just your arse? What about the top of your thighs? Your balls?”

“Oh... Um... Yes to all of that.”

“How will I know when you have had enough, want a break, or something different?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Let’s not over complicate this, John. I shall say so.”

“Ok.” John chuckles. “Restraints?”

“No. Definitely not for the first time. Possibly not ever. I need to be able to…”

“Get away.” John’s flirty tone becomes sombre. He fights the urge to break eye contact and distracts himself from his discomfort by stroking over the pulse pounding in Sherlock’s wrist.

“Indeed. And so do you. You need to walk away if it gets too much or you think your involvement is in anyway compromised.”

“Safe word?”

“I do trust you, John. I still don’t think I need one.” 

“Please.”

“Alright, it needs to be something out of context but easily recognisable.” Sherlock waves his hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Oh! Got it. ‘Irene’.”

“What?” Confused, John remembers Sherlock in this very bed, drugged and vulnerable.

“Yes, ‘Irene’. Nothing could be less wanted in my bedroom than that woman.”

“You’re a bloody genius.” John throws back his head and laughs, all tension leaving the room, “ _ Irene _ it is. And you say I can surprise you? A bit of spontaneity, yeah?”

“Yes.”

John leaps forward and kisses him.

_______________

Nine days later, on a Tuesday, Rosie is spending a couple of hours at Mycroft’s house, under the careful eye of Greg. Mycroft is feeling so much better and being in Rosie’s company seems to give him a real boost. They plan to go for a walk to the park and, if Mycroft feels up to it, tea and a bun in the little coffee hut near the playground. 

The morning is spent at home going over old files, as Sherlock is convinced a series of murders over the past twelve years are all linked. He has set up a massive fourteen column-wide cross analysis on the wall, by the means of using coloured sticky notes. By John’s calculations it holds 308 individual pieces of data. Sherlock maintains it is much easier for him to see patterns at this scale, although some of the stickies do keep getting blown off the wall when the door opens and closes.

By the time Greg leaves with Rosie, Sherlock is beginning to flag and sulkiness is setting in. John sneaks under him on the sofa and lifts Sherlock’s head into his lap, dragging his fingers through the curls, maintaining a soothing rhythm until Sherlock groans. 

“You need a shower, love. You’ve been in those ratty pajamas all day. Let’s get dressed and take advantage of of our time alone. I’d like to take you to lunch.” 

Obligingly, Sherlock hauls himself off to the bathroom and John considers joining him, but there would be a very real danger of his plans becoming derailed. Instead, he changes into fresh clothes more suited to a nice restaurant.

Nipping out to find his shoes, John returns to their bedroom to find Sherlock fresh from the shower, water droplets still sitting in his curls, the scent of his Hermés Eau D’Orange filling the room. John leans on the door frame unnoticed, as Sherlock searches his wardrobe, discarding his first choice of a white shirt in favour of black. As the silk settles over Sherlock’s shoulders and he bends to take underwear from a drawer, a flash of inspiration hits John.

“Don’t.”

Sherlock turns his head in surprise. 

“You are absolutely perfect as you are.” John is behind Sherlock, hands under the open shirt, stroking his chest, smoothing over the planes of his stomach and trailing fingers over his hips. 

“Your skin against this shirt is unbelievably gorgeous.” John reaches up on tip-toe to nip at Sherlock’s ear lobe, fingertips teasing nipples and smoothing the lines of his ribs.

Sherlock turns in his arms and kisses John sweetly, lips and tongue tips grazing and stroking. He reaches for the hem of John’s jumper but his hands are stilled.

“No, sweetheart, this is all about you, just for a little while.” John kisses him again, a trail of small flutters down Sherlock’s neck and collarbone and a small, teasing lick to each nipple. He then plants his hands on Sherlock’s hips, turning him around until he faces the end of the bed.

The contrast of the pale skin of Sherlock’s perfect, plump backside against the dark, soft sheen of the shirt, is intoxicating. John slides his hands down stroking, then squeezing. Sherlock groans and presses back into John’s hands.

“Yes, love, do that.”

Sherlock pushes back again as John runs his finger over the thin skin that covers the nadir of Sherlock’s spine, over and over again, each pass eliciting a soft ‘ah’ and instinctive flick from his back. He drops his finger teasingly between the cheeks, getting closer and closer to Sherlock’s hole but never quite reaching it. 

John slides his foot between Sherlock’s and nudges them wide apart. He slides his hand under the shirt, stroking Sherlock’s back and spine. Feather-light fingers trace the curve where Sherlock’s lower back arches and becomes the full curve of his arse. After a few moments of adoration, he moves the hand up higher, to the middle of Sherlock’s back, and presses down firmly so that Sherlock has to bend from the hips. 

“Hold onto the end of the bed, hands spread wide.” John is surprised by the growl in his voice. He steps back and admires the view before him; Sherlock, arse high in the air, back arched, legs spread and shirt rucked-up past his waist. His hard cock hung just visible between his legs.

John removes his clothes, his own cock swollen and hard. He places his right hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and grips himself with his left.

“Fuck Sherlock, the sight of you! You’re so beautiful, I’m having to stroke myself just to take the pressure off.”

Sherlock’s arches his back further, bringing his bountiful arse even closer. “John.” The single word is drawn out, deep and quiet.

John takes a moment to compose himself. He wants to be utterly in the here and now, aware of every nuance and change. He smooths his hand over Sherlock’s left buttock, and then curls his fingers under to brush his balls. The first slap is sharp, the sound reverberating around the room, rapidly followed by Sherlock’s groan.

There is no mark yet, just warmth as John holds his palm, cupped and soft, over the place he hit. His second spank is to the right cheek, a fraction harder this time so that his own hand smarts a little. This time they both groan as John strokes and soothes the pinked skin.

“You are so good, Sherlock.” John tells him. He has no interest in pretending to punish, no admonishments or threats. Absolutely no suggestion that Sherlock  _ deserves  _ this. They both want this; pleasure not pain. Love not anger.

He gives two sharp smacks to the same spot and Sherlock’s knees bend a little as he whimpers in the back of his throat. John is unsure. Is it a whimper of pleasure or pain? He leans over Sherlock’s back. “OK, love?” he whispers.

“Mmmmmm.” purrs Sherlock. “It’s good.” 

Reassured, John grins and bends, kissing the spot he last struck, small, gentle kisses to cover the reddening patch. As he straightens, he leans forward and whispers. “You are so gorgeous, and you’re mine, aren’t you Sherlock? Mine to look after. My good boy.” He pulls his hand back again and this time his slap is to the centre of Sherlock’s arse, the tips of his fingers just catching on the fluttering hole.

Sherlock throws his head back, spine arching and elbows bending. “So- so good,” he manages. “So good for you, John.” 

“Yes, for me. Because you’re mine, aren’t you, Sherlock? All mine?”

John takes Sherlock’s leaking cock firmly in his hand and strokes. Sherlock has to lock his knees to stop himself from falling.

“Yours.” Sherlock pants out, voice broken with relief and pleasure.

John’s own cock is aching with want. The sight of Sherlock’s reddened arse makes him want to bite it; to sink his teeth in and consume it, bury and lose himself. The trust that Sherlock has placed in him is more than he deserves and a wave of love and gratitude hits him. That they have transformed what happened, that god-forsaken day in the morgue, and turned it around, transmuted it into this act of worship, trust and love is overwhelming.

His hand is flying now on Sherlock’s cock and he gives him a series of slaps low down, his hand catching on the tops of Sherlock’s twitching thighs. Each slap produces a hum of delight, bringing Sherlock closer and closer. John soothes these slaps with broad licks of his tongue; one for each slap, the last a broad lick to the pulsing hole.

Sherlock bends almost double as he comes, hands letting go of the bed and resting under his head buried in the duvet. John leans close against him, his hand now furiously stroking his own cock, forehead resting on Sherlock’s back.

“Come on me.” Sherlock croaks and John does; thick, warm stripes coating the red heat of Sherlock’s cheeks. 

They collapse together in a heap on the floor at the end of the bed, arms wrapped around each other as their heart rates recover. 

“Fuck.” John squeaks out. “Fuck. Was… was it OK? Good? Was it what you wanted?” 

“God. Yes, John. Yes. I felt, felt...utterly as if I belonged just to you, that you would take me and claim me and then look after me. That you would....”

“Worship you. I do, Sherlock, I don’t deserve you, I-” John is shocked to feel tears well up. “It’s you who owns me. I belong to you.” 

Sherlock holds him tightly, carefully wiping away the tears and kissing John’s cheeks, eyebrows, lips.

“We belong to each other.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to Breath4Soul for her brilliant Beta services. Breathy, the fluffy feels at the end are for you.


	6. Dadalock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discuss crossing the line from being a couple to a family and how that might work in the future. Rosie doesn't care, she just loves her Dadalock.
> 
> For the prompt, breeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to the inestimable Breath4Soul for her beta help

“Ice-ream, Dada”

“No, Rosie, and say ‘Sherr-lock. Sherlock’.”

“Wan ice-ream, Dadalock.”

“Not today.” Sherlock bends down, scooping up the irritated toddler. She wriggles and starts to screech.

“No, no! Down!” 

Sherlock glances around at the other families enjoying the park. Rosie’s shrieked protest has drawn a few concerned glances. He returns her to the grass and plops down next to her, long legs crossed. He awaits her next foray in this battle; experience has taught him she is a formidable foe.

Indeed, Rosie, master of manipulation and queen of the dizzying mood change, decides to take a different approach. She drapes herself along Sherlock’s side, small hands balled up under his arm, wriggling fingers tickling a little. She looks up at him from beneath her blonde eyelashes.

“Peeease, ice-ream?” Sherlock has to concentrate on not smiling. If it was up to him he would give her the ice cream, but John has said she has been getting too many sweet things lately and, after all, she is John’s daughter.

Time to raise the stakes. The Game is on!

Sherlock wiggles a single, long, index finger towards Rosie’s chin. She giggles and he flexes all five fingers at her. 

“No, no, Dadalock, no ickle.” 

She shrieks in pretend terror as Sherlock chases her around the picnic table, bent low at the knees, coat flowing behind him as he waggles his fingers. He catches her, giving her belly the gentlest of tickles before scooping her up and throwing her in the air. They are both breathless and laughing when John appears, balancing two coffees and a carton of apple juice. 

“Nicely done.” John leans in and mutters, confirming Sherlock’s deduction that he had been watching them from a distance. 

“You’re much better than I am at diffusing her tantrums.” 

To Sherlock’s genuine surprise, he really is. It’s his innate understanding of the need for distraction, or the challenges of being at the whim of dramatic mood changes. He is the best at knowing how to soothe or derail a tantrum before it takes a firm hold. Despite John’s greater experience in the field.

He also finds this recent change in Rosie’s behaviour a fascinating development; the testing and pushing of boundaries, the deployment of social niceties to get what she wants. The skillful emotional manipulation of every adult she meets enthralls Sherlock. What John insists on labelling as ‘the terrible twos’, Sherlock sees as forming the bedrock of Rosie’s personality and her ability to interact with others. At times, he is in awe of her skills. He has much to learn from her. 

John slips his hand into Sherlock’s as they stroll towards the playground in the park. Sometimes, Sherlock catches sight of himself from outside. How ordinary they must look to others. How normal; a family at the park on a Sunday afternoon. Not at all like a recovering junkie hovering on the outskirts of raising the child of a suicidal, ex-assassin mother and a father with PTSD and anger management issues. 

Sherlock and John have been a couple for five months and, of course, have been raising Rosie together for longer. When Mary left, John had needed all the help he could get in caring for infant Rosie. Sherlock regularly took care of her during the day so John could sleep. His speciality was giving her a bottle and walking the living room with Rosie on his shoulder until she slept. He had even forgiven her for vomiting down the back of his oldest Belstaff. 

He finds he has to pull back, sometimes. He makes decisions about what she should wear, or play with, or which stories to read at bedtime. In these moments, Sherlock has to remind himself not to get too close but knows he will always be a part of her life. He had whispered that commitment in a tiny, sleepy ear when she was less than three weeks old. He will always watch over her, keep her safe and do whatever he can to make her happy. 

What he can’t predict is the shape this will take. He and John have been blissfully happy for five months, but Sherlock is under no illusion this is guaranteed to last forever. He is a difficult man, who makes dangerous and infuriating choices. He is a drug addict, quick to bore and rude. No, Sherlock does not expect a forever.

Which makes this ‘Dadalock’ business so difficult. 

It’s not as if anyone else has ever referred to him as her Dada or Daddy. Also, it does not matter how many times John corrects her - “No, love, Sherlock. Sherr-lock. You say it.” - Rosie still calls him Dadalock. 

Every other adult in her life makes the same distinction.

“Oh, look, Rosie-baby, here’s Daddy and Sherlock home to get you,” Mrs. Hudson coos.

“Sorry, Rosie, I need to borrow Daddy and Sherlock, but I’ll have them back soon,” smiles Lestrade.

No, it’s all Rosie’s doing. It’s almost as if she has inherited the twin characteristics of stubbornness and determination from somewhere.

They sip their coffees in contented silence as they watch Rosie play in the sandpit. Sherlock is watching her intently, waiting for any sign she is going to try to steal the bucket from the small boy playing next to her. He has twice observed her watching it out of the side of her eye. 

“Is this something you have ever wanted?” John asks,his hand gesturing at all the children playing in front of them. “Kids, I mean.”

“No.” As soon as he has said it, Sherlock knows John will take his response the wrong way. He attempts to clarify, for himself as much as John.

“I mean, my life was such that I never gave it any thought. It was never an outside possibility, so I didn’t waste any brain power thinking about it.” Sherlock maintains a steady gaze on Rosie who now has one hand outstretched towards the yellow bucket handle.

“I worry sometimes, that I have just landed all this on you. Us, I mean, me and Rosie.” John squeezes his hand.

“But you know I love-” 

“Yeah, I do, but it’s not like you ever had a choice, is it? It’s not like you planned to have a child? You want me - you get a package deal.” John is also now watching as Rosie slyly drags the bucket a few inches towards her, ignoring the objections of its owner.

“Not that unusual, John. People have relationships with single parents all the time.”

“Yeah, but what about you? For a long time, you weren’t that keen on a relationship with me. Look at all the things you put yourself through rather than just tell me how you feel? I would never presume your feelings for Rosie, let alone being, you know, ‘Dadalock’.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, turning to look at John directly. ”Never under appreciate my regard for either yourself or your daughter, John.”

“Ok.” John is a little flustered by this display of Sherlockian romance. “And what about you? I mean, have you ever, I mean would you like a child, or children, of your own?” 

Sherlock never gets the chance to answer his question. Rosie makes a sudden lunge for the bucket, clasping it to her chest with a victorious shout of “Mine!”. The little boy next to her makes a grab to pull it back. Not willing to give up her treasure without a fight, Rosie raises the bucket above her head. At the exact same moment, Sherlock and John rise to their feet, voices raised.

“No, Rosie!”

Neither of them forgets the question.

__________________

John’s mouth slides down Sherlock’s cock, crown to root, with exquisite slowness. Sherlock can feel every minute change in pressure, every flicker of John’s tongue and puff of air from his nostrils. John pushes Sherlock’s wrists down onto the bed beside him, using his full weight to pin him in place. 

Eyes screwed shut, Sherlock tries, and fails, to free himself. John’s refusal to allow his body to move gives Sherlock’s mind the freedom it craves; the permission he needs to let go and feel. Surrendering the responsibility of thinking, deducing, deciding and knowing allows Sherlock to sink deeper into the sensations, to do nothing but enjoy them. 

John draws back up to tease Sherlock’s corona with the very tip of his tongue, around and around. He flicks at the frenulum, laps at Sherlock’s slit and draws the point of his tongue, made firm, over his balls. Sherlock is nothing but wet, warm, pushing, needing want. Then John, oh glorious, beautiful John, takes the head of Sherlock’s cock firmly in his mouth and bobs and sucks at speed. Sherlock’s orgasm curls and builds, retreats and coalesces, diffuses and surges forward, upwards, until it catches and explodes. Sherlock’s silent roar of pleasure sits in his throat until it calms to a soft, drawn out moan of pleasure. 

John falls onto his side. He wraps himself around Sherlock, knee over thigh, arm over chest, head in the Sherlock-perfumed crook of his neck. His own orgasm already obtained, they fall into a satisfied and silent haze. 

In the gentleness of the dark, Sherlock hears John draw in a sharp breath, only to sigh it out again. The silence settles until John takes another deep breath. This time he asks again. “Would you like to have a child of your own?”

Would he? There was a time, not so very long ago, that the notion was as far fetched as him becoming an astronaut. However, the universe has shifted and rearranged around him and now nappies, babygros and pink plastic things are part of his everyday life. Would a small version of himself be a good thing? Does this world need more of the Holmes’ genes? He remembers the first time he saw Rosie; tiny, utterly dependent and beautiful. He had loved her instantly. Would it not be a good thing to multiply and spread such love? 

And Sherlock’s heart reaches out into this still shifting universe and answers:

“Yes.”  
______________________

Sherlock knows John is trying to say something to him. Once upon a time he would have found this annoying, frustrating and would have bullied it out of him. Now, he knows that John will say it when he believes the time is right.

It’s hard though, because John’s nervous glances and aborted attempts go on for two full days. Sherlock is pretty certain he already knows what John wants to talk about, of course, but finds that he also has no idea how to start this conversation.

It is late that evening, just before they go to bed that John finally manages to force it out. Over one last cup of tea.

“How does this work, then? How can we...I.. shit.” John takes a deep breath and tries a different tack.

“What you said the other night in bed...about wanting a child.” He studies his hands in his lap. “How do we...if we are together...and I want to be...but is it not...? I can’t give you that, Sherlock.” The last statement comes out in a large sigh.

“I am aware of that, John. I am familiar with how human reproduction works.” Now that he has come to the realisation that being a parent is something he wants, Sherlock is nervous about John’s reaction. Nervousness always makes him snide. Out of habit, he prepares himself for disappointment and gathers his old protective layers about him.

“You bastard, you know what I’m trying to say.” But John meets his eyes, laughs and it all becomes a lot easier.

“I want to give you that, if it’s what you want. I know it’s early days yet, and I have no idea how, or where, or even when, but I want you to know - I’m up for that, if it’s what you want.”

One part of Sherlock’s mind soars into action, considering gene splicing and egg donation, surrogacy and other possibilities. Another part is far more interested in the fact that John has indicated that he considers this relationship to be one in which he can give Sherlock this. A child. That it is for the long-haul. 

Permanent. 

“Because, that’s what I would like too. Not right away, but, yeah. I’d like to have a baby with you.” John grins and they grin at each other. “As soon as you said it, my head filled with pictures of this curly-headed whirlwind of mischief, playing with Rosie. I could hear her laugh and it just seemed so right.” John gazes at Sherlock, eyes dancing with joy at this imagined child. Then he draws himself up straight, his face filled with determination.

“But more than that, I need to say… Look, if this is too soon, please say, but I watch you and Rosie and I think I’m right. What I really want is another baby with you. Because, Rosie, well, she is yours - ours. Your her Dadalock.” John swallows hard.

“If you’ll have us?” 

Sherlock strides forward and plants a blistering kiss on John’s lips but has to pull back after a minute to giggle. John giggles in reply and they hold each other tight. This is the most ridiculous conversation and yet, Sherlock suspects, it’s the most beautiful, romantic, down right loveliest conversation he will ever have in his life. 

“Take me to bed, John.” 

Between hushed giggles and heads still shaking in disbelief, they strip each other’s clothes and fall onto the bed. The laughter subsides, replaced with sudden, demanding need. Wrapping around each other, each trying to get closer to the other, more enveloped, they kiss and thrust and stroke. Soon, John is reaching for the lube.

“I want to fuck you. Can I?”

“Yes. Please, John, please.” Sherlock moans greedily. 

John slides one finger back and forth over his hole, giving gentle pushes and presses until Sherlock’s body opens and draws him in. His finger slides in, still and waiting until Sherlock begins to move, rocking backwards and forwards.

“More, I need more.” 

John adds a second finger, but climbs up to his knees to be able to go deeper, his strokes smoother, slower. More lube, a third finger and Sherlock is mewling; small, pitiful noises as John methodically fucks him, brushing his prostate on each outward slide. John’s other hand is between his own legs, sliding his cock through a loose fist as he studies Sherlock’s face.

“Fuck me.” Demands Sherlock. There is no begging; it is an order. Captain John Watson obeys.

John slides his hands under Sherlock’s arse, gives it a squeeze and twists his hips to turn Sherlock over, so that his weight is resting on his forearms, arse high in the air. John slicks himself with lube and leans forward, sliding into Sherlock in a single, firm thrust.

They both cry out and John holds still for a long moment, drawing deep breaths and listening to Sherlock panting. Sherlock grinds back on him eagerly. 

“Fuck it, Sherlock, I’m already close. Don’t move, just for a minute.” A teasing Sherlock ignores him and continues pushing back.

“Jesus, I said....” John holds Sherlock tightly by the hips, locking him in place.

“I want you to...” Sherlock squirms, trying to move, “I need you to fill me with your come. Please!” 

Sherlock’s voice is high and pleading, and nudges John’s brain over from aroused to desperate. He wraps his hands around Sherlock’s waist, lifting Sherlock even closer to him and he fucks harder than he has ever fucked anyone before. Sherlock howls his approval into the pillow under him.

“You want me to fill you?” John growls. Sherlock’s only response is to push back even harder onto John’s cock.

John pounds into him, head back, muttering a filthy stream of encouragement.

“You gorgeous..yes...fill you with my come ....that’s what you need you...in your tight h-hole. Fuck Sherlock! I’ll fill you-with-my-babies.” 

John comes, his orgasm so powerful that he almost collapses onto Sherlock. 

Wracked with aftershocks, he falls to his side, panting, that he doesn’t realise Sherlock is lying, immobile and silent, face still pressed into the pillow. 

“Fuck, love, that was…” John trails off as Sherlock turns his face away.

John props himself up on one elbow, arm across Sherlock’s back. “Sherlock? Sherlock. Look at me, love. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock is shaking now, pressing his face deeper into the pillow, the tiniest of noises escaping.

“Sherlock, why are you-?” John presses firmly on Sherlock’s ribcage nearest to him and rolls him over. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock pants out, tears coming from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, please promise me you will never say that again.” More shaking. “Fill me with your-” but Sherlock Holmes is unable to end his sentence because he dissolves helplessly into another fit of giggles. When he finally manages to draw a breath, he looks up at a stunned John.

“Say what?”

“B-Babies!” It comes out in a whimper.

“I didn’t say that...did I?” 

Sherlock can only nod his head and squeak. “Babies!”

The pair of them laugh so hard, that Sherlock forgets about his erection completely. They drift off to sleep, wrapped around each other, one or the other occasionally breaking the peace with a giggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my plan, this had a very different ending. Sherlock was humiliated and upset by John's outburst and they had a huge row. Obviously, John and Sherlock disagreed with my assessment of their reactions and decided to have a laugh instead.


End file.
